


One Day, Three Autumns

by fengbi



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, China, Drama, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Light Angst, Period Typical Attitudes, Slow Burn, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengbi/pseuds/fengbi
Summary: Shanghai, 1933.The world is on the verge of war. Marinette and Adrien fall in love anyway, hoping to beat the odds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, I want to point out a few Mandarin words I slipped in.
> 
> Popo = maternal grandmother (yes this distinction is important)  
> Lao Fu = Master Fu (Lao literally means old and is also used as a title to indicate respect. Kind of like mister)  
> Mei Yi = I don't think Marinette has a canon chinese name so I came up with Mei Yi ^^;;  
> Mei Mei = means little sister, but also is Marinette's "nickname" derived from Mei Yi  
> Qipao = Chinese dress 
> 
> Also there will be some racist language used to reflect the era. This is not a reflection of my own beliefs.

May, 1933

 

Marinette likes to think she knows the seas better than most.

 

After all, the sea has only ever brought her happiness.

 

She sits in a chair on the roof of her home, poised at first with tightly crossed legs and hands clasped together, set demurely on her lap, and back as straight as a board. Her family is by no means rich, but they are doing quite well for themselves and it is her role to appear a presentable young lady..

 

Yet, as hard as she tried, it did not take long before Marinette was shamelessly leaning over the railing. Her legs were spread in a most definitely unladylike manner as she thrust her upper body as far out as she could, trying to see everything the outside had to offer. Marinette’s dark hair hung in a tangled heap down her back. She had not yet brushed it that morning, and the morning wind did nothing to smooth her locks. Like her hair, Marinette’s long qipao also fluttered with the light sea breeze, exposing enough of Marinette’s legs that her grandmother would have lectured her for weeks about shame and face.

 

Luckily for Marinette, there was no one else who could see her. It was still early in the day, the first rays of light breaking over the horizon. The soft, rolling waves of the sea flickering as the water met the light, then breaking into flickering ripples. 

 

It was beautiful.

 

The tranquility of dawn was interrupted by a blaring horn. In a single swoop, seabirds that had been spread out along the rocky coast rose at once to head out to sea, leaving stray feathers and indignant squawks behind in their wake.

 

The horn signaled the incoming of a new ship. A modern, English style ocean liner pulled into the port of Shanghai. By the looks of it, a passenger ship. As the sun rose higher and higher, rays reflecting off the water like an endless mirror, Marinette stood. Standing gave her an improved vantage point, and Marinette loved the view she had of the harbour.

 

She loved the sea.

 

The burning torches that had illuminated the harbour when Marinette first stepped outside were now extinguished, only a few wispy trails of smoke seeping from the ash. She watched the new ship intently, watching the crew leap from the dock, dropping anchors and throwing ropes. 

 

Marinette could have stood there, on the roof of her home, for hours, watching the men work on the ship, watching passengers slowly file out, one by one all at once. Every person lugged along a large suitcase, perhaps a couple, and some women held their children to their hip. Everyone was visibly exhausted from the weeks spent at sea. For every person she could make out from the crowd, Marinette imagined a story for them. 

 

The little girl with sunshine hair who bent down to pick up a rock was from Germany, was a princess with servants to do her every bidding, and was here to get a new, china doll.

 

The old man with the hunched back and cane was here to spend the rest of his days somewhere new, having no one left to mourn for him at home.

 

The pair of young men walking briskly, pushing others out of their way, were merchants on their first journey abroad, first journey away from the safety of their homes. 

 

Marinette loved the sea, and loved the endless possibilities the waters could bring.

 

~~~

 

After breakfast, Marinette stood in the marketplace, a woven basket hanging from her arm and on her other side her grandmother’s hand resting in the crook of her elbow. 

 

It was still early, about half past seven in the morning, but the market place was already bustling with people crowding in front of the stands. Everyone was yelling and pushing, fighting for the freshest produce and loudly bargaining with the sellers.

 

“Mei Yi! Go to Lao Fu and ask for eight pounds of rice.” Marinette’s grandmother, Popo, said into Marinette’s ear. Popo released Marinette’s arm and hobbled away towards a date stand, disappearing into the crowd. 

 

With her basket in hand, Marinette tried to push her way through the crowd. It was no small feat -- early morning was the prime time for vendors to open, for busy workers to pick up their groceries for the day and for mothers and grandmothers to come out and fight for the juiciest fruits and leafiest vegetables. There was no guarantee of food, and arriving any later often meant returning home empty handed to angry wives and crying children.

 

Keeping her head ducked down, Marinette followed whichever direction the crowd pushed her in. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, carefully watching each step so that she would not accidentally step on anyone’s toes. 

 

Marinette’s legs took her in whichever direction the crowd of busy shoppers jostled her in. She couldn’t tell where she had started, or how far she had gone, or if she was even going in the right direction. Any of other time of day, when the market was nowhere near as crowded, the path Marinette was taking would have been ridiculous.

 

But Marinette loved seeing all the people around her, busying themselves with lives of their own.

 

There was something about meeting people you’d never see again that was fascinating, magical. Marinette could have stood in the middle of the market all day, just letting others guide her.

 

Eventually, some time later, Marinette caught glimpse of Lao Fu’s funny little turtle banner and began fighting the crowd to make her way towards Lao Fu. 

 

Squeezing through a small space between a young couple, Marinette threw herself at Lao Fu’s rickety cart. 

 

“Oof,” the impact with the cart knocked the air out of Marinette, and she stayed there with her upper body dangling rather ungracefully into the heap of rice in Lao Fu’s cart.

 

“Good morning, Mei Yi,” Marinette heard from above her. A hand placed itself on her shoulder and helped pull her upright, out of the rice.

 

Lao Fu stood beside her, wearing his signature bemused expression. Marinette never figured out if his natural expression was bemusement, or if he was secretly laughing at her. She’d wondered for her entire life, and it seemed she would go to her deathbed still wondering.

 

Shaking the grains of rice off her shoulders, Marinette grinned sheepishly with flushed cheeks. “Hello Lao Fu,” she said, bowing at 90 degrees. “How are you today?”

 

Nodding in acknowledgment, Lao Fu said, “Business as usual, Mei Mei. Eight pounds of rice?”

 

“Yup!” Marinette chirped, handing her basket to Lao Fu. She watched him hobble over a few steps before Lao Fu set her basket on the cart.

 

As he scooped rice into Marinette’s basket, Lao Fu said, offhandedly. “Mei Mei, there is still rice in your hair.”

 

“Oh!” Marinette gasped, her hands immediately flew to her long, twin braids. Grains of rice flew in every direction as Marinette shook her hair out, messing up her previously smooth braids. 

 

As Marinette finished shaking the rice grains out of her hair, she turned and stepped to where Lao Fu was scooping the last of her eight pounds of rice. Lao Fu handed her the basket, now filled with grains of white rice. Marinette opened her mouth, about to thank Lao Fu, when something suddenly bumped into her back, hard, throwing Marinette off balance.

 

Marinette fell to the ground, her basket of rice tipping over and spilling everywhere. With dismay, Marinette stared at the fallen rice. Reaching over on her knees, Marinette was about to scoop some grains that had fallen in a pile and salvage what little she could. Before Marinette was able to recover her rice, a lady in heeled boots walked by, scattering the remaining rice and nearly taking Marinette’s fingers off.

 

For a few seconds, Marinette didn’t move, frozen in disbelief. Then, she felt Lao Fu’s course hand on her arm, gently guiding her back onto her feet.

 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I will give you a new basket. Free of charge.” Once Marinette was back on her feet, Lao Fu picked Marinette’s basket up from the ground and turned to scoop more rice from his cart.

 

Brushing the dust and gravel off her coat and qipao, Marinette pushed herself back on her feet. As she did so, Marinette noticed another figure standing by Lao Fu’s cart. Looking up, she realized the person was a foreigner. A beautiful foreigner. 

 

A beautiful foreigner with perfect, pale skin and fancy (and expensive!) clothing and angelic hair that Marinette swore sparkled in the sun and big eyes the most beautiful shade of green. 

 

A beautiful foreigner with outstretched hands, as if he had just pushed Marinette.

 

Angry tears filled Marinette’s eyes. With flushed cheeks and damp eyes, Marinette whirled on the foreigner, glaring, having forgotten about the concessions and the consequences. All she knew at that moment was fury, fury that these foreigners had the audacity to come into her country and her home and push her over and spill her rice that she was purchasing with her parents’ hard earned money. 

 

“You! How dare you!” Marinette shrieked, pointing at the foreigner with an accusatory finger. The foreigner looked taken aback, raising his hands between them. Evidently he had never faced an angry Shanghainese girl before.

 

Marinette continued, “Who do you think you are? You selfish whites! No honour whatsoever! You come here and can’t even face us on even ground. No, you need to come here and treat us like slaves, like lesser people, to satisfy your own desperate egos. You are despicable. You are nothing. We are a people with a long and rich culture, and we have no room for dirty whites on our land.” She emphasized each sentence by jabbing her finger, as if she were digging her nails into the foreigner’s chest.

 

The bustling people who passed them by turned at Marinette’s outburst, looking on with mild interest, but continued on their way without even slowing their pace. 

 

At the back of Marinette’s mind, the realization that the foreigner wouldn’t understand Shanghainese hit her. Abruptly, she switched into French, the only foreign language she could speak. 

 

“You disgust me, I hope you know that. You whites aren’t as powerful as you think you are. Get out. There’s no place for whites here.”

 

The foreigner’s mouth opened in shock, opening and closing wordlessly, clearly not expecting Marinette to know another language. He reached out, and tried to stammer something out, but his voice was stuck in his throat and Marinette didn’t care enough for whatever he had to say.

 

Huffing angrily, Marinette turned on her heel and stormed away, off into the crowd, leaving her basket behind on Lao Fu`s cart.

 

~~~

 

“And he just pushed me! Just shoved into me and made me spill at the rice! No word of apology, no anything! Those whites, thinking they can do whatever they want just because they’re white.” Marinette pounded her fists into her bread, kneading the dough with unnecessary force to vent her anger.

 

Behind Marinette, Alya sat against the wall with her back hunched over, writing furiously onto a sheet of paper. There was no table where Alya sat, so she made do with her lap.

 

“Girl, don’t over knead that dough. Your grandmother will skin you alive if anything else goes wrong today,” Alya said, without looking up from her lap. 

 

“Ugh,” Marinette smashed her fist into the dough one last time before walking off to retrieve a baking pan. Her steps were heavier than usual, her slippered feet loudly smacking against the wooden floorboards. “It’s always my fault. Why can’t the whites ever take responsibility for their actions?”

 

“Because they have been taught falsehoods of their superiority and think they’re some master race and the world is their playground for their delusions.” Knowing Marinette was unlikely to release her anger anytime soon, Alya abruptly changed the topic. “Have you seen the paper today? Some very important businessmen arrived this morning! I hear that a French nobleman even arrived! Word is that he’s looking for a pretty mistress,” Alya winked.

 

Shaping the dough into smaller spherical mounds, Marinette wrinkled her nose. Her entire body visibly shuddered. “That’s disgusting. I suppose he’s claiming youth at seventy years?”

 

Alya hummed nonchalantly, “Who knows? Better beware of those fishy Frenchmen, though. I think Grandmother Cheng would rip your hair out with her bare hands if her descendents become any more foreign.” Alya then folded up the paper in her lap and smoothed out her long skirt.

 

“As if that could happen. We barely even see foreigners anymore. The only whites who didn’t lose everything in the depression are the nobles and they wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this,” Marinette said flippantly. Setting the last bun on the pan, Marinette lifted the pan and pushed it inside the oven. 

 

Alya stood. “But imagine!” she waved her arms around excitedly. “You could be a Madame Chine!”

 

“More like Madame Chienne,” Marinette snorted. She looked down at the flour and dried flakes of dough coating her hands, then brushed her palms together to scrape the flakes onto the wooden counter. “Though shouldn’t you be more concerned about Nino, than me? Think you’ll become someone's Madame soon?”

 

Alya gaped, face pursed in an exaggerated scandalous expression. “We’re only fifteen! Too young for marriage!”

 

“But not too young for courting!” With her apron, Marinette wiped the last of the doughy flakes from her hands as she winked at Alya. Marinette continued talking, ignoring Alya’s face of feigned disgust. “I’m sure Papa would bake you the most exquisite cake! And Popo and I would make you the most beautiful dress!”

 

“Why, you!” 

 

Marinette laughed as Alya chased her around the kitchen. 

 

“Just for that I’m going to set you up with the Agrestes myself!” Alya screamed, waving a rolling pin at Marinette’s back.

 

“What’s an Agreste?”

 

“Only the most important family in France! Full of snobs and the like!”

 

“You would never!” Marinette slowed her pace, as Alya set the rolling pin back on the counter. The pin rolled away the moment Alya let go, not stopping until it rolled into a cup of chopsticks and knocking it over. Alya simply laughed and rested her elbow on Marinette’s head.

 

“We’ll see about that.”

 

~~~

 

That evening, Marinette stood outside her family bakery, silver tray of pastries in hand. Her back was rigid, perfectly straight, and Marinette wore a peony pinned behind her ear. She smiled as brightly as she could, though after standing in the humid, thirty degree heat for the better part of the day her expression was rather strained.

 

When no one was around, Marinette discretely let her shoulders slouch. She slipped a foot out of her heeled pumps, rubbing her sore sole against her other foot. She could feel a blister beginning to form on her toe, not to mention several other tender areas. As she stroked her sore feet against each other, she lost her balance and stumbled. Her tray of pastries tipped, the egg tarts rapidly skidding towards the ground.

 

A pair of hands reached out to steady her tray. White hands.

 

Wide eyed and stunned, Marinette looked up and met the brilliant green eyes of the white boy who knocked her to the ground that morning.

 

He smiled shyly, setting Marinette’s tray straight.

 

“Er, hi? Master Fu said I would find you at a bakery. I’m glad he didn’t lead me into a brothel or something.” He rubbed the back of his neck and studied Marinette`s egg tarts, unable to meet her eyes.

 

Unsurprising, given the ferociousness of Marinette’s glare.

 

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. The white boy waited for Marinette to respond. Marinette refused to give him that satisfaction.

 

While the white boy rung his fingers out as he waited for a response, Marinette slipped her foot back into her shoe. She gritted her teeth as her blisters scraped against the hard leather of her pumps. 

 

“I’m sorry,” the white boy said, accepting that Marinette wasn’t about to respond, “about earlier? You got the wrong idea, I swear. I was just going to help you up because my friend knocked you over and it looked like a hard landing.”

 

Though Marinette’s gaze softened as the boy spoke, she still did not respond.

 

“I’ve never really had many friends because my father always insisted on private tutors. I was really hoping that I’d be able to make some here, without father watching my every move, but I guess it’s not as easy as I thought it’d be,” the boy smiled ruefully. “I’m very sorry for disturbing you, mademoiselle. Please accept this as a token of my apology.” He set a basket of rice on the ground next of Marinette’s feet.

 

It was Marinette’s basket.

 

Just as the boy turned to leave, Marinette called out, “Egg tart?”

 

He froze. 

 

Slowly, he turned back -- confusion and disbelief and hope written on his face -- to see Marinette with a small smile, offering her tray of egg tarts to him. Tentatively, he reached out and when Marinette lifted the tray to meet his hand, he smiled as his fingers closed around a tart.

 

“Thank you, my lady.” He was beaming now, and Marinette couldn’t help but feel uplifted at this boy’s elation over such a trivial thing.

 

“Marinette,” she said. “That’s my name,” she continued after he gave her a confused look, “Marinette.”

 

In an exaggerated, sweeping bow, the boy bent over to kiss Marinette’s hand. “Adrien Agreste. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Marinette.”


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Marinette ran into Adrien Agreste, it was Alya’s fault.

The fact that Marinette somehow managed to run into the same man again in a city of three million was not Alya’s doing, but the circumstances under which their meeting happened most certainly was.

It was certainly Alya’s fault that Marinette was now in Adrien Agreste’s arms, having literally run into Adrien Agreste. At full speed. It was also Alya’s fault that Adrien Agreste’s hands were now on Marinette’s back. His bare fingers, touching the bare skin of Marinette’s back. Definitely Alya’s fault. It was all Alya’s fault that the palm of Adrien Agreste’s hand was now resting, quite comfortably, between Marinette’s shoulder blades. Adrien Agreste’s bare skin resting against her equally bare skin. All of it was Alya’s fault.

~~~

It started that morning, when Alya had welcomed herself into Marinette’s home as usual. Alya’s mother had returned from abroad so Alya came bearing gifts – a linen shawl for Popo, a lace parasol for Marinette’s mother, and a dress for Marinette herself.

A dress that had Marinette blushing and furiously shaking her head. “Alya, that’s ridiculous! I can’t wear that! Th-that’s….that’s indecent! So extremely and very terribly indecent I couldn’t possibly!”

Standing before Marinette, Alya held up the dress. From the front it appeared to be a fairly standard dress, the skirt ending at the knee and a modest scalloped collar.

“Girl, you know I love you but you’re being ridiculous,” Alya coaxed. “This is the latest trend in Paris! All the most stylish ladies are wearing this style! Maman brought this all the way from France! Come on, you can’t deny that this dress is absolutely gorgeous.” Alya shook the dress in Marinette’s face.

Covering her burning cheeks with her hands, Marinette studied how the dress flowed with Alya’s shaking. Indeed, the dress was incredibly well made and the thin fabric fluttered beautifully with the slightest breeze. Any other dress, and Marinette would have been thrilled and begging to try it on just once.

“But….but it’s a gift for you! I-I can’t take something your mother gave to you!” Marinette began pacing, throwing her arms up and around in jerky, exaggerated motions.

Shrugging, Alya continued to hold the dress towards Marinette. “But look. It’s blue. You know what blue does to my complexion. I will not be seen looking like a blueberry and it’d be such a shame for such a lovely dress to go to waste. Besides, Maman got me more than just one dress! And this shade of blue does such wonderful things to your complexion.”

Marinette’s face was steadily growing redder by the minute. “But the back! It’s so….so indecent!”

The entire problem with the dress from the back. The back hung open and backless, revealing the wearer’s entire backside, framed by rivets of gossamer fabric.

“My back will be cold! I’ll catch a chilly wind and get sick! I could die!” Marinette continued to protest, hands waving wildly. Alya had to take a step back to avoid Marinette’s flailing limbs.

“None of the Parisian women have died yet.”

Marinette stopped and faced Alya. She blinked, eyes wide and bulging. Her mouth opened and closed, mouthing silent words.

“Nothing to say?” Alya smirked, once again stepping forward to thrust the dress in Marinette’s face. “You know this colour would look stunning with your eyes? Come on, at least try it on. Just once! I need to see how it looks on you!”

Sighing, Marinette ceded defeat and reached out to take the dress from Alya’s hands before she slipped behind her rice paper divider.

“Girl! You look fabulous!” Alya gushed the moment Marinette pushed the divider aside. “This colour was made for you!”

At that moment, the trapdoor flung open and Marinette’s mother poked her head into Marinette’s room.

Immediately, she noticed the dress Marinette wore. “Oh! Is that a new dress? It’s very beautiful,” she said, pulling her upper body into a sitting position on Marinette’s bedroom floor. Her legs dangled against the ladder.

“Hello Madame Cheng! Maman bought it in France and I thought it’d be perfect for Marinette,” Alya said, offering a hand to pull Madame Cheng to her feet.

Madame Cheng studied Marinette.

“Mama! It’s really nothing! I’m just trying it on! Alya’s going to take it back right afterwards!” Marinette protested, her cheeks dangerously red. She took a step back and stumbled into her divider and yelped.

While Marinette whipped around to steady her divider, Alya leaned over to conspiratorially stage whisper into Madame Cheng’s ear, “She’s keeping the dress.”

Madame Cheng’s eyes twinkled as she smiled. “Mei Mei, please twirl for me.”

Biting her lip, Marinette stiffly tucked her arms against her chest and spun around once. The layered skirt floated up, layer by layer, before fluttering back down. Behind her, the gossamer fabric lining Marinette’s bare back drifted up as well, creating the illusion of wings.

“Ah, this colour really matches your eyes. But, Mei Mei, you would be so much more beautiful if your arms were not so stiff!”

“Mama!” Marinette’s hands flew up to cover her face.

Paying Marinette no mind, Alya said to Madame Cheng, “Mari really should show off her eyes more.”

“Yes,” Madame Cheng agreed, “Mei Mei has beautiful eyes. Every other young lady who sees you is so jealous, why must you insist on wearing such dull colours? You must wear this dress out today.”

“But Mama!” Marinette protested. “The wind could blow on my back and give me a cold!”

“It is June,” Madame Cheng said as she descended down the ladder leading to Marinette’s room, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Foreign styles are expensive and difficult to come by. We must show off what we have.”

After her mother disappeared beneath the floorboards, Marinette gave Alya a defeated look. After all, one simply does not argue with a Chinese mother.

Alya smirked victoriously.

~~~

Outside, Alya and Marinette did not get very far before Marinette stumbled over the uneven path.

Marinette’s home was near the docks, and by extension, near the foreign business sector of Shanghai, where rich foreigners experienced the best China had to offer. Close enough that Alya could drop by whenever she so desired. But, not close enough as Marinette’s street was no different from the average street in Shanghai. As such, the buildings were old, storekeepers were forced to live above their shops, and the streets were never even.

So, in all fairness, it was also the street’s fault that Marinette was now in such a compromising position with Adrien Agreste. Just a little. It was still mostly Alya’s fault.

“Oof,” Adrien Agreste had huffed, the air having been knocked out of him when Marinette collided. “Oh God, I apologize for not paying attention. Are you alright, Miss?”

Marinette recognized his voice instantly. With her cheek squished against the chest of Adrien Agreste, she groaned softly in humiliation and exasperation. Of all the people in Shanghai.

Adrien Agreste had taken her groan as a sign that she had been hurt and stepped back, hands moving to grip her shoulders in case she needed support. Quickly, Marinette shook her head frantically, her twin braids flying. “No, no, I’m fine. Just fine.” Her voice was breathy as she stared at her feet, trying to hide her face from Adrien Agreste.

“She’s fine,” Alya piped up. Marinette could hear Alya laughing at her.

Adrien Agreste still sounded concerned though. “Are you sure, Miss? Miss?”

Marinette was squeezing her eyes shut, trying to think of how to get out of this situation.

Unfortunately, Alya was still laughing. “Marinette’s a walking hazard, she’s fine.”

Their first meeting had been days ago, and it would not have been unusual if Adrien Agreste had no recollection of her. Marinette was, after all, just another Chinese girl in Shanghai.

“Miss Marinette?” Adrien Agreste’s tone indicated to Marinette that he did indeed remember her from their less than stellar meeting a few days prior.

With her cover blown, Marinette looked up at Adrien Agreste with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry Mister Agreste, I’m fine. Really, I am. I’m just a little clumsy, you see. But really, this happens all the time and it really was my fault for not being more careful.” At that moment, Marinette realized Adrien Agreste’s hands were still on her shoulders, prepared to steady her if needed. Smiling a smile of false confidence, Marinette took a step back to show she was fine and able to move on with her day.

Only, Marinette stepped on the same uneven spot as earlier and stumbled again. And again, Adrien Agreste caught her.

Alya had stopped laughing after hearing the Agreste name. “Agreste? As in the French textile mogul?”

Having steadied herself, Marinette hissed, “Alya!” Her head whipped over to give Alya a dark look.

But Adrien Agreste wasn’t at all fazed by Alya’s bluntness. “Yes,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “My father is the head of the company.”

“Then what brings an Agreste out to this side of town? This is hardly the place for an Agreste, as you can see.” Alya’s words had Marinette shifting uncomfortably. Though Marinette was no stranger to giving subtly biting remarks, she had already made her peace with Adrien Agreste and wanted to keep it that way before he said something that would brush her the wrong way. Really, all Marinette wanted to continue her day and forget about Adrien Agreste’s existence.

“The city?” Adrien looked confused, and relief flooded Marinette when Adrien Agreste did not appear to be even slightly offended.

“This street. This is hardly a street an Agreste would stand on,” Alya’s saccharine tone was borderline mocking.

Adrien Agreste, however, was undisturbed by Alya’s tone. Instead, Adrien Agreste was more interested by Alya’s words. “This street? I mean no offense, Miss, but this seems like any other street to me.”

Bristling at Adrien Agreste’s obliviousness, Marinette narrowed her eyes. “It really is not,” she said coolly, taking a step away from Adrien Agreste. This time, she didn’t trip.

Adrien Agreste’s confused expression prompted Marinette to continue. “Look at these streets. Does the road where you stay really look like this? Do you see all these people around us?” Marinette gestured at the people walking around them, people going about their lives. “We are workers. Real workers. We own stores, are builders, sweep the streets, open restaurants. We make enough to get by, but not much more than that, and we despise the wasteful style of foreigners. The world does not care for us, and the General has forgotten about us.” Ending her tirade, Marinette smiled a wistful smile.

When Adrien didn’t immediately respond, Alya took that moment to interject, “Agreste, what street are you staying on?”

Adrien flushed slightly when he responded. “Huangpo Lu.”

“The Astor House Hotel,” Alya said, without any hesitation.

Scoffing, Marinette linked Alya’s elbow with hers. “Come, Alya, Mama will need me to watch the store soon.” Before leaving, Marinette faced Adrien Agreste and bowed at 45 degrees. “We will take our leave now, Mister Agreste. I apologize for my carelessness knocking into you earlier.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

If Marinette had waited a couple seconds later, she might have noticed the flash of guilt in Adrien Agreste’s eyes.

~~~

Days passed, then weeks, and soon June turned into July. With the change in month, came a change in climate. Marinette didn’t much like the summer months, with its intense humidity and boiling temperatures. Everything was wet and sticky, Marinette always felt that she would never be clean or dry again, and the humidity made it all the more difficult to store leftover cakes and buns.

The sour weather brought with it an unwanted guest. Thomas Dupain, the man himself, walked up to where Marinette was fumbling with the money box. Neither said a word as Thomas Dupain stopped, leaving a counter between the two.

Marinette continued staring at the money box on her lap, pretending she hadn’t noticed her father.

Thomas coughed uncomfortably, hoping to catch Marinette’s attention. Though she paused her rummaging momentarily, she began to pointless shuffle and reorganize the bills in her hands so that she would not have to address her father first.

Although it had not yet reached noontime, Thomas’ face was already dripping with sweat. The lack of a cool gust did him no favours. Even Marinette, long accustomed to the sweltering temperatures of Shanghai in July, had beads of sweat beginning to dot her neck and temples.

As Thomas was opening his mouth to finally break the terse silence between them, Mama stuck her head out from the kitchen. “Mei Mei, would you like a break to dust the cakes?” Before Marinette could respond, Mama noticed Thomas standing, his burly figure uncomfortably sticking out between the shelves of desserts and the small counter. “Thomas, hello,” Mama said in her broken, deeply accented French.

Having her mother there gave Marinette the chance to drop her charade. Almost immediately, Marinette set the money box down to quietly slip past her mother. “I’ll take care of the cakes.”

Thomas watched Marinette’s back disappear behind the door wistfully. “She used to never leave my side, when she was a little girl. Do you remember when she used to cling to my legs to ask me to stay?”

“That was a long time ago and it never stopped you.” Madame Cheng’s deliberately avoided Thomas’ gaze. “To Mei Mei, you are little more than a foreign stranger now.”

“I am Marinette’s father,” Thomas insisted. “I provide you and her with as much as I give my wife and son.”

“You were Mei Mei’s father,” Madame Cheng smiled regretfully, still not looking at Thomas directly. “It has been a long time since you have acted as one.” Seeing Thomas open his mouth to argue, Madame Cheng raised a hand and prompted him to stop whatever he was about to say. “No, Thomas, it has been a year since I saw you last and it will be another when I see you again. I do not want to argue. Please, join us for dinner.”

~~~

In the kitchen, Marinette had just barely started on the cakes before she was interrupted. Popo swept into the kitchen in a flurry of anger. “Mei Mei, was that a foreigner I heard?”

“Father is here,” Marinette said, dusting the sugar grains off her hands.

“Go change,” Popo said shortly, already moving to put Marinette’s unfinished cakes away.

“Popo?”

“Wear your red qipao. The one with the dragon and peonies. Outsiders who lie and debase our lovely Shanghai girls deserve to be reminded that they now have Chinese children. No white man who has been with a Chinese girl can claim to be the superior. We are the middle kingdom, and your scum father will never be accepted,” Popo snapped as she reached for a pot.

“Yes, Popo.” Marinette turned to leave, before stopping to ask one last question. “What will we be having for dinner?”

Smirking, Popo pulled rice and daikon from the cabinet. “We will be having Chinese food, Mei Mei.”

~~~

Thomas Dupain sat uncomfortably at the small table, fumbling with his chopsticks and a bowl of rice placed before him. In the middle of the table, a steaming pot of daikon soup sat with a dish of chive dumplings. A small plate of fermented bean curd and pickled daikon peel was set beside the dumplings.

Popo acted as though Thomas was not there, spooning daikon into her bowl. As Thomas was seated directly across from Popo, she blew on her soup under the guise of cooling her food. In actuality, knowing Europeans did not take well to the strong scent of daikon, Popo was intentionally wafting the scent toward Thomas.

“Mei Mei,” Popo said in Shanghainese, “you chose a good daikon today. Very tender. No strings.”

“Thank you, Popo,” Marinette said. She followed Popo’s lead, silently sipping at her soup and nibbling at the dumplings.

With only Thomas and Mama left to fill the massive gap in conversation, their words were stilted and uncomfortable.

“Thomas, when did you arrive in Shanghai?”

“Just a few days ago.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure yet. I leave when the Captain is finished his business.”

“Do you know where you go next?”

“I have a hunch it’s back to France for me.”

Thomas and Mama’s conversation was broken and forced (and the discomfort only magnified by Mama’s lack of fluency in French), but the mention of France ended any conversation that may have followed.

The four of them sat in a hushed silence, each wishing to cut the tension but none willing to be the one to do so. In the end, it was Popo who spoke up just as Marinette was finishing her rice.

“Why is he only eating the rice?” Popo gestured at Thomas’ bowl, still half full despite it being the only food he had touched during the meal. As Popo spoke only in Shanghainese, Thomas immediately looked to Mama, panicked, awaiting a translation.

Sighing, Mama responded. “My mother is asking why you do not drink the soup.”

“Ah,” Thomas relaxed. “I did not want to be rude, that is all.”

Instead of waiting for Mama to convey his words to Popo, Marinette jumped in to play translator. “He says he thought it was rude to eat more.”

Popo narrowed her eyes, but before she could say any more, Thomas glanced at his wristwatch and jumped up. “I apologize, unfortunately I am late for a meeting with my captain. I hope to be in Shanghai again soon.”

Before he left, Thomas pulled a small, jingling bag from his pocket and set it on the table. He nodded at Popo, smiled at Mama, and said “Goodbye, Marinette,” before turning and letting himself out of their home.

As soon as Thomas’ footsteps could no longer be heard, Popo snapped. “What uneducated foreigners. How rude to eat so little. And not even finish his rice! What a waste.”

“Ma,” Mama glared at Popo, “he can read and write! And has been to school!”

“Yet his unfinished food is now waste. Does he think we’re rich?”

“Ma, he understands responsibility. He leaves us more than enough money!”

“That certainly is true,” Popo said, grabbing the pouch Thomas left behind and immediately began counting the money. “Money is all that foreigner is good for.”

Marinette, knowing that Mama was about to explode at Popo, quietly slipped away from the table. Neither Mama nor Popo noticed Marinette disappear.

~~~

After each visit, Mama and Popo would not speak to each other for at least a week. Popo disapproved of Mama’s status as a second wife (“No daughter of mine should settle as the concubine of a white man.”), and Mama both ashamed she could not be the first wife as well at irritated by Popo’s comments. Tensions were always thick in the following days so Marinette offered to spend her time with customers in the shop, leaving Mama and Popo to knead out their frustrations into the dough.

Summer months were quiet months in the store as well. Soups and fruits were more welcome than breads and sticky pastries in the heat. The stickiness of the humidity was more than enough reason to move as little as possible and so, Marinette spent most of the day alone. Once in awhile Alya would drop by, but with her own mother around for the time being, Alya was preoccupied in her own home.

_“Maman is home so rarely, all Ella and Etta want is Maman’s attention.”_

_“Well, Madame is on break.”_

_“Ella and Etta have broken a six plates, two spoons, a dozen frames, and a bookshelf trying to get Maman’s attention. And I had to clean all of it up.”_

So Marinette spent her time embroidering alone in the store. The stark drop in customers gave her more than enough time to work. She was halfway through stitching a red swallow on a bamboo fan when she heard someone entering the store. Pulling her red thread taut, Marinette looked up and let out a soft, “oh,” when she saw who it was.

“Erm, hello, Miss,” Adrien Agreste stopped beside the bread shelf, his hands clasped together in front of him.

Though Marinette did set her embroidery needle down, she continued to hold onto her unfinished fan. She said nothing, instead she watched Adrien Agreste, expectantly waiting for him to pick something from the shelves and leave.

When he did nothing, Marinette narrowed her eyes. “Monsieur, do you need something?” She wasn’t mad – she really wasn’t – but Marinette had more than enough of snobbish Frenchmen with more money than they needed. It had been nearly two weeks since that disastrous dinner and Mama and Popo still were not speaking.

“I, er,” Adrien took a few tentative steps forward, “I simply wanted to apologize for my behaviour the other day, Miss Marinette. In all honesty, I am not entirely sure what I did wrong but I apologize for causing you offence.”

Marinette clutched her fan to her chest. “You did nothing wrong. It is simply that we are incompatible.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Marinette, but I must disagree with you. Our second meeting, when you offered me an egg tart, was quite enjoyable.”

“Then you are simply naive,” Marinette said bluntly. “You are from France. I know the likes of you. You will play with me, enchant me, then dump me without consequence. We are from different worlds and I have no interest in playing your exotic pet.”

Adrien Agreste was taken aback, eyes wide and mouth slightly opened. “I, er…”

“Save it,” Marinette sighed, attention shifting back onto her fan. “I’ve had enough of shameless Frenchmen in this one month to last me a lifetime.”

Though Marinette’s tone was gentle, her words cut into Adrien. He found himself suddenly angry, only seeing red. “I see, Mademoiselle. I see how our handful of  meetings have been more than enough for you to determine who I am, and the quality of the nation I am from. I will bother you no longer and I apologize for interrupting your work.”

With his head bowed, Adrien slunk out of Marinette’s bakery. With his back turn to Marinette, she could not see how his face was flushed with anger and humiliation.

Marinette looked up from her fan just in time to see Adrien’s back disappear behind the corner. Though she was still thoroughly incensed from their brief conversation, her chest panged uncomfortably from guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffytalk: There’s a lot of Chinese cultural quirks added in here that would take a really long time to explain so I’ll try to make this short. The important scene is that awkward dinner with Thomas.
> 
> Daikon soup: Daikon is the Japanese name. It’s 白萝卜 (Bai Luo Bo) in mandarin which is a white radish but it seems to be most often called daikon in North America so….It has super strong scent that people who don’t grow up eating it (and some who do grow up eating it) tend to find repulsive.
> 
> Pickled daikon peel: it’s exactly what it sounds like but I swear it tastes better than it sounds
> 
> Chive dumplings: Another very strong scent that I’ve been mocked for by my white classmates ><
> 
> Tofu Curd: A side dish often paired with light foods. It looks like a bleached cube of poop but is actually super yummy 
> 
> Also, in China, when you are invited out to eat you must eat a lot or risk offending the host. Also everyone gets an individual rice/soup bowl but all the vegetables and soups and stuff are all placed in the middle.
> 
> Second wife: In China a second wife is basically a concubine and it’s still practiced today (although much less common) and the second wife is looked down upon 
> 
> If you have any other questions, comments, or just want to talk, feel free to leave a comment/message me!


	3. Chapter 3

As July melted into August, the temperature refused to fall while the atmosphere in the bakery continued to deteriorate. Mama and Popo had reconciled their relationship, though both continued to carefully avoid any mention of France, travelling merchants, and Thomas Dupain himself. Despite that improvement, Marinette felt rather down. To make things worse, business was still slow with the relentless heat and humidity. 

The slow, drawling days left Marinette trapped in her own mind, replaying her last encounter with Adrien Agreste over and over, again and again. She had analysed their meeting, then over analysed, and then continued to analyse until it all became meaningless. 

A small pebble of guilt had lodged in Marinette’s chest and no matter what she did, no matter how she thought, no matter how she justified it, she couldn’t dislodge it. Even if Adrien was a Frenchman, he had not wronged her in such a manner that warranted the harsh words she’d said to him. It was almost fitting, it seemed, that as soon as Mama and Popo were content Marinette would suffer. 

With Mama and Popo having taken over the early morning baking for the time being, Marinette spent her mornings by the harbour with her thread and needle. She was nearly finished with the red swallow she had begun work on months earlier. 

As Marinette wove the needle in and out, and in and out, through the fan, the waves crashed against the concrete pillars of the harbour. Some of the bigger waves managed to jump up and tickle the soles of Marinette’s bare feet. Her Mary Janes sat next to her. 

In her mind, the red swallow did not exist on her fan; the red swallow fluttered in the air of the harbour. The little bird wove in and out and between the massive passenger ships and cargo ships and the smaller fishing ships. Marinette imagined the swallow perched on a rock that was half submerged, pecked at some seeds that had been dropped by a child earlier. The swallow was free to fly wherever she wished, beholden to nothing and no one. 

The sudden tooting of an incoming ship snapped Marinette out of her head. With a wistful smile, Marinette noticed the sky had suddenly grown much brighter. While lost in her thoughts, Marinette had finished stitching her swallow. Sighing contentedly, Marinette tied the end of the thread and bit the thread so it broke off before swinging her legs up, out of the water, and back onto the dock. Her feet were still wet so instead of slipping her shoes back on, Marinette opted to go barefoot and carried her shoes by its straps in one hand. Her other hand clutched her now completed fan. The needle had been poked through the hem of her qipao for safekeeping. 

On her way home from the docks, Marinette had to walk through the foreign business sector. It was early enough that very few people were out on the street, though Marinette did see more than a few old white men laughing more loudly than was appropriate as they puffed on their pipes. Some whistled at her; when that happened, Marinette bristled but continued walking with her head down. Oh, how she hated passing through the foreign sector.

After turning the corner onto Huangpu Road, Marinette could see the grand Baroque pillars of the Astor House Hotel up ahead. Unconsciously, Marinette’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly with distaste for the blatant waste the Astor House Hotel represented. 

Distracted by the hotel, Marinette didn’t notice a small stone on the path before her. Had she been wearing shoes, she likely wouldn’t have even noticed. But as she was barefoot, her leg buckled from the pain when she stepped on it. 

“Hsss, ouch!” Marinette hissed as she rubbed her bare foot against her calf. Luckily, the skin hadn’t broken so there was no risk of infection. Thankfully, too, because Mama could not afford a doctor for her.

“Excuse me, I saw you stumble. Are you alright, miss?” Someone had turned the same corner, just in time to see Marinette stumble on the rock. “Marinette?”

Marinette turned to see none other than Adrien Agreste. “Monsieur Agreste,” she mumbled, unsure of what to say. 

Adrien Agreste hadn’t been alone, as a pretty blonde girl was on his arm. “Ah,” she said with the typical air of dominance exerted by foreigners. “I see you know this servant. I’ll head back first,” she said airily. Before she walked off, she gave Adrien two farewell cheek kisses which Marinette watched awkwardly, not sure the appropriate response to witnessing such an intimate moment. 

Once she was out of earshot, Adrien grinned sheepishly. “Sorry about her, Chloe’s an old friend.”

At the same time, Marinette snapped, “I am no servant!” Immediately following her outburst, she covered her face with her newly completed fan. 

Both stood in silence for a few seconds. Adrien chuckled softly with his hand covering his mouth. Still, he couldn’t muffle the sound of his laughter. Marinette blushed furiously and continued hiding behind her fan.

When Adrien didn’t say anything else, Marinette took a deep breath and lowered her fan slightly. Her cheeks were still burning. “I, er, I thought I should apologize for our last meeting,” Marinette said awkwardly, in French. “Please don’t report me to the French embassy….” she added as an afterthought, as the full extent of the consequences of offending a foreigner occurred to her. 

“Oh,” Adrien said. For a few seconds, he said nothing, unsure of what to say. “I, er, actually, I was going to apologize. I realized you were right, as we are not friends and I had no right to expect such favours from you. I hope you will accept my apology, Miss Marinette.”

The only response Marinette could think of was: “So you won’t report me to the embassy?”

Adrien blinked, clearly expecting Marinette to say something else -- perhaps even snap at him again. “Why would I report you to the embassy? You have done nothing wrong.”

“I live in the French Concession, Monsieur. I am governed by both the laws of Shanghai and France. You could report me to the embassy and have me tried by the French Consular Court.”

“Why, why that’s unreasonable!” Adrien’s expression clearly indicated this was the first time he had ever heard of the French court. 

Marinette smiled bitterly. “The law is the law. What Europeans say becomes the law. It is how it is.”

“But that’s absurd!”

“Perhaps,” Marinette said thoughtfully, looking distractedly at a post behind Adrien’s shoulder. “But more than a few of my neighbours have been tried and convicted by the French courts. It has been decided that a French life is worth more than a Chinese life, that a white life is worth more than a yellow life, and so we live under such conditions.”

“That....that’s…” unable to find words to voice his thoughts, Adrien opened and closed his fist. A new understanding dawned on his face. “You have enlightened me to many truths, Mademoiselle. If I may be so forward, I would like to escort you home. In exchange, I would like to learn more about such truths.”

Finally lowering her fan, Marinette nodded. 

Though the walk back to her bakery was uneventful, Marinette realized she had developed a newfound respect for Adrien Agreste. Adrien did not ask any more political questions (unbeknownst to Marinette, Adrien had not wanted to upset her any further), instead asking about the names of the streets they passed and the history of the owners of the small stores they passed. 

“Quai de France….that sounds very French,” Adrien remarked as he pointed at a very French road sign they passed. “There is a road in Grenoble, in the south of France, with the very same name. Quai de France…”

“Perhaps because it was named by France,” Marinette quipped. 

“What was it called before?”

“This road was built by the French. Although, I’ve heard rumours of some who want to rename it Zhongshan Road someday.”

“Are you one of those people?” Adrien asked, genuinely curious as his turned to face Marinette.

Marinette bit her lip, thinking of what to say. “I...do not know yet. But I do know that I would like to see a Chinese name up there, someday.”

When Adrien dropped Marinette off at the front of her bakery, he grinned.

“I have to thank you, Marinette. I have learned so much from you that I could never have known otherwise!” Adrien was looking directly at Marinette, and she shivered from his gaze.

“I found it quite enjoyable as well,” Marinette smiled back, still somewhat tentatively. “I do not have the chance to speak French often and conversing with you has been quite pleasant.”

Marinette turned away from Adrien, about to enter her bakery when Adrien said, “wait!”

Stiffly, Marinette turned her head to give Adrien a questioning look. 

“It’s quite greedy of me, really,” Adrien said bashfully, cheeks tinted red. Despite his shyness, Adrien continued to look Marinette in the eye. “Could we be friends, Miss Marinette? I don’t have many friends and I really did enjoy your company today.”

Marinette beamed. “I think I would not mind being your friend, Monsieur Agreste.”

The silence between the two stretched out for a few moments, both happily revelling in the presence of their newfound friend.

At the time, Marinette didn’t realize, but the pebble of guilt in her chest had finally dislodged and disappeared.

~~~

“Mei Mei,” Popo said, frowning, from the doorway of the kitchen. “Come.” Popo left just as suddenly as she had appeared.

Marinette shuddered. Nothing good came from an unhappy Popo. Wiping her flour dusted hands on her apron, Marinette followed. She followed Popo into their tiny tea room, where Popo had prepared a pot of chrysanthemum tea. 

“Popo,” Marinette greeted, eyes focused on her hands. Her fingers picked at the dried bits of dough that clung to her skin and stuck under hei nails. “Is something wrong.”

Focused on pouring the tea, Popo said nothing at first. After she had taken a long sip from her cup, Popo fixed Marinette with an unimpressed glare. “Cheng Mei Yi, I have been hearing the neighbours speak of you.”

Marinette gulped, blowing on her own tea. Though she wasn’t sure what exactly Popo was angry about, she did know that she was about to be on the receiving end of a long lecture. Popo only used Marinette’s full name when Popo was extremely displeased. 

“They say you have been speaking with a foreigner.”

Marinette should have known that it would take no time for Popo to find out about Adrien. Old ladies were notorious gossipers and Popo was the worst.

“Cheng Mei Yi,” Popo said, glowering at Marinette, “must I remind you of what trash foreigners are? They are lazy and brainless, knowing nothing of the value of hard work. They think themselves above us. Us! The people of the middle kingdom.”

“Yes, Popo,” Marinette kept her eyes downcast, studying the stains on her apron. 

“Honestly, do you forget all our difficulties because your father is a good for nothing foreigner? Once a year, the man comes and traipses through the door as if he belongs here. Here, in our home! He does not even bow in respect! Such insolence and disrespect. No grandchild of mine should suffer through such injustices!” Seeing Marinette’s lower lip quiver, Popo softened her tone. “Mei Mei,” Popo reached out to rest her hands over Marinette’s hands were closed around her tea cup and set the cup gently down on the table, “Popo is just worried about you. Outsiders are never to be trusted. They do not understand the beauty of our culture, of our people.”

Smiling shakily, Marinette thought quickly to shift the brunt of Popo’s anger onto someone else. She said, “yes Popo. I understand. I’m sorry. He just came up to me and asked to walk with me and I was too scared to reject him. I didn’t want him to complain to the embassy!” Marinette rubbed her eyes, pretending to wipe away tears.

“Aiya! Mei Mei, don’t touch your face with your hands! Hands are dirty!” Popo chided, her earlier anger now dissipated. “My poor darling, this is why we must beware those outsiders.” Leaning forward, Popo stroked Marinette cheeks with her wrinkled hands. “Be careful when you go outside, Mei Mei. You never know when those foreigners will ruin you. They are moraless monsters. Promise me, you will be careful.”

“Yes, Popo. I promise.” Marinette couldn’t quite meet her grandmother’s eyes as she spoke.

~~~

Adrien was distracted. He was seated with his father and Natalie, who were discussing fine silk and kudzu cloth with the Chinese merchant seated across the table. 

“The silk is fine, but this kudzu cloth looks no different the threads used by the peasantry. It is far too rough and coarse for the fine ladies and gentlemen of Paris,” Gabriel Agreste said, unimpressed. He pushed his glasses up his nose, glaring down at the poor merchant.

“This is very, very good cloth,” the merchant insisted. “Very sturdy, look very foreign. Kudzu cloth is very exotic, will be sold for very high price in Europe! 

“I must discuss with my son before any deal may pass. Leave us.” Adrien winced internally as he watched the Chinese merchant bow at ninety degrees before showing himself out. 

Though it had been nearing three weeks since he had become Marinette’s friend, that conversation often replayed itself in Adrien’s head. Adrien found that he was beginning to see many of his daily interactions in a new light. When he first joined his father during his business meetings in Shanghai, Adrien took no notice to how people merely bowed at his feet, how people near begged for his business. When Adrien thought back to his first meeting, he had been grouchy and uncomfortable and very difficult. At the time, he had thought nothing more of snapping at, then threatening, the Chinese server who asked if he wanted water. At the time, the Chinese server was bothering him, grating on his nerves.

But now, with the knowledge from Marinette, he was uncomfortable with the person he had been. Just as Adrien was now uncomfortable with how his father treated the poor Chinese merchant who only wished to make a living to feed his family. In France, Gabriel Agreste was known for his short temper and high expectations and Adrien had never given a second thought to the consequences. He almost never saw his father, anyway, so what did it matter who Gabriel Agreste shoved to the ground and stepped on?

As it turned out, it mattered a lot. Because now that he had a new friend in Marinette, everyone he had no given a second glance at before suddenly became people. People with lives and dreams and struggles and worries and Adrien wasn’t entirely sure he liked this change.

“Adrien,” Gabriel Agreste snapped.

“Father?” Adrien was yanked from his thoughts.

“You respond when you are addressed, boy.”

“Yes, Father,” Adrien looked down, unwilling to meet his father’s perpetually icy stare. “I apologize.”

“As I was saying,” Gabriel Agreste continued, “I do not believe kudzu cloth to be of any value. Exotic peasant cloth is still peasant cloth and will not sell. No man of status would be seen looking at such shoddy workmanship.”

Feeling sympathetic to the merchant, Adrien attempted to sway his father’s decision. “Father, could it be possible to buy a small amount, just to feel out how it will be received? Just one bolt, and if it is so unappealing the remaining fabric can be used to uniform our staff.”

“Nonsense,” Gabriel snapped. “My staff will not seen donning the garb of peasants.”

“Monsieur Agreste,” Natalie interjected, a rare occasion. “Forgive me, but I agree with the young Monsieur. This kudzu is inexpensive and I see no harm to one bolt. Should kudzu be as unpopular as you say, we may use it to train new workers on the machinery. It is cheaper than the scrap cotton currently in use.”

Gabriel was silent, still, unused to having anyone voice their dissent. Adrien rubbed his hands on his trousers, trying to ease the clamminess of his palms. “Father?” Adrien said, tentatively, when Gabriel still had not responded after a full minute. “I will take full responsibility should kudzu be a drastic failure.”

“Pah,” Gabriel Agreste sniffed in disdain. “As though a failure could be anything other than a failure. Failure matters little when it is tied to the Agreste name. Very well, we will purchase a small amount of kudzu.” He paused to glower at Adrien. “Let this be a lesson, Adrien. Should this be a mistake, know that failure is not taken lightly.”

Gulping, Adrien said, “Yes, Father.” Beads of sweat dotted the back of Adrien’s neck, though the late August heat was likely not the sole cause for his perspiration.

Banging his fist on the table, Gabriel Agreste called for the Chinese merchant to return. Adrien flinched at the brusque mannerisms of his father.

Within the minute, the Chinese scrambled back into the room. He stood behind his vacated seat and bowed, but made no motion to sit. “Mister Agreste, sir, have you reached a decision?”

Adrien thought Gabriel Agreste’s permanent frown seemed to deepen as he spoke. “I firmly believe this kudzu cloth is the garb of peasants. However, my son believes your kudzu cloth is worth my investment. We will order 50 yards of this kudzu, with an additional 200 bolts of silk in assorted colours. I would like to inspect the colours you have available, before this deal goes through.”

“Of course, Mister Agreste,” the merchant maintained his professional demeanor, but Adrien noticed how the deep lines on the merchant’s forehead had lightened significantly. “Come, I will take you to see the cloth.”

After the door had closed behind Gabriel Agreste’s back, Natalie chuckled. When Adrien gave her a questioning glance, she explained, “It is amusing how eager the chinetoque are to serve.”

“I was under the impression he was a merchant? Is he not a businessman?” Adrien asked, expression carefully masking his confusion.

“This one claims to be a merchant,” Natalie said, finely manicured nails tapping against her thick agenda. As a personal assistant, Natalie was not paid a spectacular wage, though working in the employ of Gabriel Agreste gave her access to some boons of the wealthy. First and foremost, Natalie represented the Agreste image and as such, Gabriel Agreste spared to penny to ensure she looked the role. “Yet, you see how he acts, how he grovels, how he begs and bows, and he is evidently in the wrong profession. The man would make a fine servant, just like all the Chinamen. The chinetoque were made to serve; it is a mystery how their farce of a government attempt to claim independence. How would they fare, without the support of Europe?”

Adrien nodded. Natalie’s explanation made much sense to him and explained some of Marinette’s odd mannerisms as well. How she often bowed as though Adrien was royalty, how she served him egg tarts, how Marinette was so often running errands.

The Chinese, it seemed, were very much everything that Europeans were not.

~~~

“Alya, what is it like in France?”

Alya stood on a basket in Marinette’s room, arms spread, while Marinette ducked under Alya’s arms to cinch the waist of Alya’s dress. 

But Alya was too sharp minded to simply brush Marinette’s question as passing curiosity. With her eyes narrowed suspiciously, Alya responded with a question of her own. “Marinette, since when did the conditions of France concern you?”

Focused on her needle weaving in and out mere centimeters from Alya’s flesh, Marinette couldn’t see the suspicion Alya had levelled towards her. “This is the French Concession. Are the laws as unfair in France as they are here?” 

“Marinette,” Alya said, after a brief pause. “You hate France. You cringe at the mere mention of Europe. You never talk about the whites.”

Alya couldn’t see Marinette’s expression, but Alya could feel how Marinette’s fingers briefly loosened their grasp on Alya’s dress. 

Marinette never responded to Alya. She simply kept her mouth shut and finished the back stitching on Alya’s dress. “It’s done,” Marinette said, stepping back to critique how the dress now flowed along Alya’s figure in the mirror.

Alya would have none of Marinette’s evasiveness. “Marinette, I know you well enough to know you are the absolute worst at lying. Now spill.” Alya crossed her arms and made no move to step down from the bucket.

Sighing, Marinette took a seat on the bamboo sheet on her bed. Suddenly, she was exhausted though the sun had just barely reached its peak. “It’s not much. I’ve just been thinking…” her words drifted off.

Expectantly, Alya stared at Marinette.

“My father visited.” Marinette stared back. “I’d much rather be fatherless, than have one like him.”

“You never cared before,” Alya quipped.

“I didn’t,” Marinette acknowledged. Her hands were becoming restless so she moved to tuck her needle and thread back into her sewing box. “I’m not sure if I care now. But...” Marinette swallowed. Her throat was suddenly dry. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a passing curiosity. It might be nice to know about those I hate?”

Accepting Marinette’s confusion, Alya finally stepped down from the stool. “Well, remember that you wouldn’t know me if it wasn’t for the French,” Alya joked with a wink.

Laughing, Marinette listened to Alya jabber on about the crazy antics her sisters had gotten into. Though she was attentive, Marinette couldn’t help but think about France. She hadn’t expected Alya to question her sudden interest but now that Alya had, Marinette realized how ridiculous it was to ask about France. 

After all, kind words would never excuse a bloodthirsty, greedy nature.

~~~

“Marinette!” Adrien called as soon as he saw Marinette standing on the harbour. When Marinette didn’t indicate that she heard him, he called out again, louder. “Marinette!”

This time, Marinette turned. Though reserved, Marinette smiled when she saw Adrien jogging towards her. 

“Monsieur Agreste,” Marinette bowed in greeting once Adrien reached her spot by the water.

“Hello Marinette!” Adrien chirped, bright grin on his face. “You know, you’re not my servant, right? You don’t have to bow at me.”

Marinette’s smile immediately melted into a frown. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to bow when you see me,” Adrien said, still grinning cheerfully. “You’re not my servant or anything, so we’re equals!”

“I am well aware that I am not your servant, Monsieur Agreste.” Marinette continued to frown, not sure what Adrien was trying to say. 

“So you don’t have to bow.”

Blinking, Marinette said, “Why would I not bow? I mean you no disrespect.”

Now confused, Adrien stared blankly at Marinette. “Disrespect? Is it an insult if you don’t bow?”

“Of course!” Suddenly, Marinette’s eyes brightened, understanding dawning upon her. “I do not know what you do in France, but bowing is a sign of respect.”

“Wait,” Adrien’s eyes widened, the gears turning his in mind. “So everyone bows here? To show respect?”

Before Marinette could respond, a sudden strong breeze hit. Though most of Marinette’s long locks were pulled into twin braids, the wind pulled some of shorter strands out and blew them in her face. Calmly tucking her loose locks behind her ears, Marinette answered Adrien. “Of course! Why else would we bow?”

“Er,” Adrien looked out to the horizon, a shameful blush dusting his cheeks. 

With narrowed eyes, Marinette prompted Adrien to respond in a harsher tone. “Well?”

“I, er,” Adrien stumbled over his words, unsure how best to explain himself. “Well, see, in France, servants bow to their masters…” Adrien drifted off, hoping Marinette would understand the words he didn’t say.

Sure enough, Marinette did understand. Glaring, Marinette said, “You believed us, an entire nation, to be slaves?”

Adrien stepped back with raised hands and tried to justify himself. “Uh, in fairness, the Chinese are very willing to work for us!”

Scoffing, Marinette crossed her arms. Though she was quite a bit shorter than Adrien, and had little meat on her bones, Adrien found himself mildly terrified of an angry Marinette. In a carefully controlled voice, Marinette snapped, “We serve because we fear the French consulate and its unfair repercussions. How narrow minded -- to think we want to be controlled by whites!”

Marinette’s voice was quiet, for fear of being overheard, but Adrien shivered nevertheless. 

With her arms still crossed angrily, Marinette faced the open sea and turned her back on Adrien. 

Adrien stared at Marinette’s back, wracking his mind for something to say. Anything, to rectify the hole he had dug himself into. Marinette’s qipao framed the tense muscles of her back perfectly, clearly indicating her fury to Adrien as if her crossed arms and expression hadn’t been enough.

“Marinette…” Adrien trailed off when Marinette turned around to focus her glare on him.

“What.” Marinette said softly, anger still evident in her quiet voice. 

“I, er --” Adrien gulped when Marinette’s glare didn’t relent. He sighed, “I don’t know what to say, Marinette, only that I’m sorry for assuming. I was never taught that China had different customs, see.”

“So you just assume?”

“Well...I suppose it never occurred to me otherwise. So I guess I did assume?” Adrien’s voice faltered slightly. “I just...I don’t have an excuse Marinette. It was a mistake and narrow minded and unfair to think those things about you. But I want to try to make it right and if you’re willing, I would like to learn more about your customs.”

At first, Marinette said nothing, simply closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. Bristling, Adrien waited for her to scoff at him and reject him outright.

Instead, after a few more breaths Marinette opened her eyes. Though there was no hint of a smile, Marinette’s eyes softened. “I am still very angry,” Marinette said, voice tense and controlled, “but I respect that you acknowledge your wrongs.”

Turning back to face Adrien, Marinette looked straight into his eyes as she finished her words. Before Adrien could formulate any sort of response, Marinette bowed. Her waist was bent at exactly 90 degrees.

Adrien didn’t entirely understand what bowing meant to Marinette, but he took it as an acceptance of his apology. Tentatively, Adrien leaned forward, mimicking Marinette’s ninety degree bow. 

He didn’t know what exactly his bow would say to Marinette, but Adrien hoped that Marinette would understand it was his way of showing his earnestness and sincerity.

Marinette did see Adrien bow from the corner of her eyes and though he couldn’t see it, Marinette did smile, ever so slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy I don't know what I'm doing anymore sos
> 
> So bowing was a super big deal in China but nowadays it's not really practiced. There are a few situations like when major officials apologize and bow as a sign of humility but you almost never see it in everyday life. Bowing fell out of favour after 1911, before this fic, but because China is a traditional society, I'm making the assumption that bowing didn't completely fall out of favour until the Cultural Revolution. 
> 
> I'm also making a lot of liberties with Alya's role in this fic but ;w; 
> 
> Chinetoque is a derogatory French term for Chinese people. Chinaman is another derogatory term.
> 
> Kudzu is a a plant native to Eastern and Southeast Asia that is used to make cloth, baskets, and paper. A bolt of fabric equals 100 yards of fabric so Gabriel buying 50 yards is only half a bolt. 
> 
> Finally, Quai de France is a real street in Shanghai. It's been since renamed Zhongshan Road (as mentioned by Marinette) in honour of Dr. Sun Yat-Sen. In the simplest explanation possible, he's the guy who overthrew Imperial rule and made China a "republic". There's a lot of technicalities and details that explanation overlooks though so if you're interested, feel free to ask :3
> 
> The French concession is what they called the part of Shanghai under French rule and the French consular court was a real thing. Technically, because Marinette is Chinese Adrien would have to go to the International Mixed Court but that was abolished in 1930. 
> 
> And I think that covers all the non-common knowledge in this chapter phew :3 
> 
> Please comment and/or leave kudos if you liked it!!

**Author's Note:**

> This 1930s China au has been begging to be written okay I had to do it 
> 
> Also I want to talk about Marinette's name. So I chose to name her 程美艺 (Cheng Mei Yi)。美 (mei) means beautiful and 艺 (yi) means art which is super pretty so I had to ^^;;  
> Also there are several characters I could have used for her surname, but the one I chose means journey.
> 
> By the way, I mention Shanghainese briefly when Marinette is yelling at Adrien because there are diffrent dialects in China and Shanghainese is native to Shanghai. Also, it's very different from standard mandarin so the rest of China can't understand it.
> 
> And in China we buy groceries everyday. Even now, fridges are tiny and the humidity makes it hard for food to stay fresh so we buy groceries everyday. In the morning. 
> 
> Also egg tarts are from Hong Kong, not Shanghai, but I'm using egg tarts because I think everyone knows what egg tarts are. (And because I don't know what any other pastries are called in English ^^;;)


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